


Gamer

by CateAdams



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Influence, Established Relationship, Gunfighters, M/M, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateAdams/pseuds/CateAdams
Summary: Jim Kirk exists in a dark reality where he lives by the gun and expects to die that way, too. Until he meets an enigmatic stranger who saves his life by offering his own.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 11
Kudos: 89
Collections: #ficwip 5k





	Gamer

_Written for the #ficwip5k AU Challenge; inspired by “Just Breathe” by Pearl Jam._

For the fighters, the flash blast finality of gunpowder and blood brought death and merciful release. For those who ran or disobeyed, or cowered, their final excruciating glimpse of this mortal realm was fraught with helpless agony and hung with the scorn of those who still breathed.

There was no gentleness here. No yearning for better things. Contentment came in the form of a monotonous stretch of hours before another round of death. And one young man was holding onto those hours with everything he had.

This was the eighth trial he had endured, and the preternatural talent he possessed for quickness and accuracy only meant that he’d survive to see many more. So he clung to the shine of polished wood on the bar, the cool smoothness of the glass he held, and the glory of one more sunset reflected in the mirror hanging over rows of bottles. He clung to the impossible beauty of another young man seated a few stools away from him.

He tried not to stare; anyone new was virtually guaranteed to be part of tomorrow’s spectacle and perhaps someone with whom he would have to share a final moment, facing each other for life or death.

“Another one?” The bartender broke his reverie, holding up the decanter, his eyebrows raised.

“Sure.” The young man drained his glass and held it out. “Why the hell not.” He sipped at the fiery liquid. “Shit,” he muttered, wincing. He could already feel the dark curl of the liquor in his gut, a delicate film sliding over his perceptions. Sunset was already fading into evening and the deep reds of the sky were deepening into shadow.

The bar was slowly filling up with people: ordinary drinkers and other fighters, and he could feel their eyes on him. He was known, of course, and in the worst possible way. He’d killed someone’s friend or sibling. He’d killed someone’s lover. He drained his glass, not meaning to have stayed so long. 

The bartender watched him go. “Good luck tomorrow, Jim.”

The young man didn’t turn around or acknowledge the familiarity of his given name. It was their usual song and dance, and he’d either turn up next time or he wouldn’t.

He pushed the low, swinging doors open and escaped into the already chill air, walking quickly up the street, his hands at his sides and his head lowered. Night had fast approached, and the lights of the bar hung far behind him as he passed the last of the ramshackle buildings and a single copse of trees, lit silver by the moon.

There were open spaces out here, beyond the limits of the small town. And now, as he dared to slow his pace and raise his head, he could see the brilliant expanse of stars overhead: crisp and clean and untouched and belonging to no one. He stopped, inhaling the dry air. He wished that the clarity and peace above him could wash away all the blood and all the pain and all the tomorrows filled with nothing but more of the same.

Jim felt the other’s presence before he heard the footstep and he spun, his gun already in his hand. But there was no answering glint of moonlight on metal and no abrupt movement that would indicate an ambush. There was nothing but the dark hair and eyes of that compelling stranger from the bar.

They stood in silence for a handful of breaths, facing each other as the breeze pulled at their clothes and the stars watched coldly overhead.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jim barely recognized his own voice as it broke rough and tense against the velvet dark.

The stranger didn’t answer right away, holding a sharp intensity that belied his own empty hands, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a calm, quiet counterpoint to Jim’s.

“Do you know me?” he asked. There was unfamiliar hope in that voice.

“Do I--?” Jim kept the weapon trained on the other man’s chest. “Who was it?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Who did I kill? Your brother? Your wife?” There was a sick feeling rising in his throat. “Whom of yours did I murder?”

“No one,” the other young man said softly. He lifted his hands slightly. “I am unarmed.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Jim muttered. He holstered his weapon.

“Perhaps.” The other man bowed his head, his hands closing into loose fists. “Perhaps, I am.” He lifted his head again and the intensity was still there. “My name is Spock.”

The name meant nothing, and Jim shrugged. “Are you part of the trial tomorrow?”

“Evidently.” A pause. “And so are you.”

A dry laugh broke free. “Evidently,” Jim repeated mockingly. “Why are you following me? If it’s not to confront me about some lost relative, then maybe it’s to beg for your life? You’ve gotta know that’s out of my control.” He laughed again, flatly. “There are eight of us in line for tomorrow; I probably won’t even face you.”

“You were looking at the stars,” the stranger observed, his words holding some elusive significance.

Jim frowned at the non sequitur. “No punishment for looking.”

“And for speaking of them?”

“What would I say?” Jim scoffed.

The other man stepped closer to him, his hands still held out and open. Jim watched him, taking in the exotic points of his ears and the precise upsweep of his eyebrows. Strangers mostly looked the same, except for a few oddities, but no one had ever looked quite like this. The moonlight suited him.

Spock said, “I followed you because I wished to speak with you about tomorrow’s events.”

“Look, I just told you that I can’t--.”

“I know that you cannot change anything.”

“Then why bother to talk about it?” Jim let out a short, frustrated sound. “I don’t want to do it, but it’s the way of things. However cruel and despicable it is, it’s better than just sitting and waiting for someone else to take everything from you, or to die writhing from the punishment.”

Spock stepped even closer. “You say that is the way of things, but it has not always been so. Do you remember--?” His rapid speech was sharply cut off and he grunted in apparent pain, his hands lifting to his temples.

“There _is_ punishment for that,” Jim said grimly. “The pain is momentary; it’ll pass.”

Spock was breathing quicker, and when he lowered his hands, there was a determined set to his jaw. “No memories, no explanations,” he murmured, as if to himself.

“What?”

“It is not important.” He visibly gathered himself. “Your name is Jim.”

“How did you--?” Jim hummed. “The bartender told you my name, didn’t he? What do you want?”

Even beneath the veil of night, and only for an instant, the moonlight revealed something close to grief and desperation on the other man’s face. Jim felt something inside him crack, sensing that this strange encounter meant far more than had been revealed. He didn’t know the other man; he was mostly certain of that. He’d never heard his name before or seen anyone who looked like him. And tomorrow would only bring his body, lying in a pool of blood out on the cold, packed dirt of the street. Jim’s heart was pounding, though, and he licked his lips nervously, conscious of some low build of energy between them.

“What do you want?” he asked again. 

Spock’s right hand was lifting, hovering in front of Jim’s face. “May I--?” He grimaced again, his hand curling away as he shrunk back in pain, the crackling energy vanishing.

The agony lasted longer this time, and Jim took a step forward as the other man staggered, the pain finally releasing him. “You shouldn’t invite punishment,” Jim said matter-of-factly. “It’ll only get worse.”

“I understand,” Spock said tightly, straightening and tugging at his jacket.

Jim couldn’t help a sad smile, recognizing the lie. Of course the stranger didn’t understand. No one understood anything, even when they were dying.

Spock was watching him again, determination in his eyes as he lifted his hand again. Jim raised his eyebrows, thinking that this new stranger was stubborn to the point of stupidity, and then Spock’s hand cradled his jaw, leaning in closer and bringing their lips together firmly.

Warmth and gentle pleasure, and Jim, after the briefest hesitation, allowed himself to accept it. None of this made any sense, and he could feel Spock trembling even as his mouth moved confidently over Jim’s own. The dark-haired man moaned, kissing Jim as if it was the only thing he had ever wanted to do. That odd energy was beginning to spark between them again, illuminating cold depths and making Jim’s skin tingle where Spock touched it. The resonance was frightening and demanding all at the same time and, as it deepened, Jim sharply broke away.

“No,” he said roughly. “There’ll be punishment for _that_ , if it goes any further.”

“You felt it,” Spock whispered, a note of bitter triumph in his voice. Somehow he’d known Jim was not referring to their mere physical action, but to that subtle, seductive undertow.

“I felt something,” Jim said and then shook his head. “I want you, but not...we can’t do that, whatever it is. Do you understand?”

“You felt it,” Spock repeated intently. “Could you sense--?” This time the stranger made a choked noise, his hands clutching his head as he fell to his knees.

“Dammit!” Jim dropped down next to him, his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “You have to stop! Do you hear me?” He wondered what the hell he was doing. Why wasn't he just walking away? “Spock!”

“I...I hear you, Jim.” And there was his name again, spoken in a unique way: soft and known, even beloved. Jim winced, banishing the thought from his mind.

“Listen to me,” Jim insisted. “I know, okay? When I first found myself here, I was like you, in a way. Not with the...the,” he gestured loosely, not knowing how to describe that feeling of _energy_ , “but with trying to remember things. It hurts more and more each time if you disobey and you’ll finally just die from the pain. I’ve seen it happen. Please,” he gritted his teeth, wondering if he’d ever used that particular word before, “please stop.”

“I cannot...stop,” Spock gasped. “There is no other way to save--.” He grunted, falling on his side on the ground, his body seizing once before he lost consciousness.

“Fuck!” Jim yelled. “You fucking fool! You...you… .” He stopped himself, glancing around into the heavy, dark silence. Gathering himself, he stood and turned away, fully intent on simply leaving. There was nothing for him here. Nothing but danger. And yet, he couldn’t help himself from glancing back to the crumpled body lying on the ground, wondering if it was he who was the fool after all.

~~~~~~~~~

The fire crackled and spat, sending sparks up into the air and casting shadows over the ground around them. Jim sat cross-legged, a stick in his hand to poke at the embers, his eyes fastened on Spock, seated similarly next to him.

The other man had just woken, betraying no surprise at finding himself at Jim’s campsite. He had also not said a word, merely accepting some water and watching the flames.

Jim finally spoke. “I watch the stars because I feel they’re untouchable. They’re separate, apart. They’re not part of this and never will be.”

Spock blinked, a single eyebrow lifting. “They may not be a part of the actions that define this place, but they are a part of us.”

Even though the punishment had obviously hurt him badly, Spock displayed no fear. Jim wondered if the stranger’s bravery would persist to the trial tomorrow. He wondered, with macabre curiosity, if Spock would cry out, like all the others, when the bullet hit him. It occurred to him that he wanted to hear this man’s voice call out in pleasure before he heard it lost in the throes of pain.

“I want to kiss you again,” Jim said bluntly, not one for wasting time. “But, you can’t do the--.” He vaguely motioned to his head.

“I will not,” Spock said flatly. He turned his head to watch Jim with frank curiosity. “Why do you wish for physical intimacy with me?”

Jim sniffed as he tried to maintain an air of detachment. “You’re attractive,” he listed, “neither of us can guarantee life beyond tomorrow, and finally, I might distract you from stubbornly inviting punishment. It makes me nervous and I’ve got no desire to die that way myself.” He shrugged, equally curious. “Why the hell do you want me?”

“I have always wanted you,” Spock replied quietly. “I always will.”

It was an odd thing to say, but Jim ignored it in favor of slowly standing as Spock did the same. The fact that he might have to be the one to kill this man still lurked in the background, but somehow held much less importance now that both of them were here and willing.

Jim reached for him, eager for the unthinking passion of earlier, and ignored, too, the soft, broken noise Spock made as their mouths came together again. The fire hissed next to them as their movements lost their deliberation in favor of a near frenetic pace. Jim let his hands roam, pushing aside the other man’s jacket to feel the trace of hard muscle beneath a thin shirt, reaching up to slide his fingers into silky hair.

Spock was kissing him like before, capturing his breath, tongue caressing his own as both possessor and possessed. Jim marveled at the heat of the man, of the unbelievable strength of him. Jim was fully aroused, his pants tight and uncomfortable, and he gently pushed Spock in the direction of his tent as he stripped himself of his own jacket and boots, letting his weapon fall away carelessly into the dirt.

They fell together onto the softness of the sleeping roll, scrambling to remove the rest of their clothing without breaking their contact. And when their naked skin finally came together, Jim couldn’t help his own cry, quiet and desperate and disappearing into his partner’s kiss. This was unbelievable. This was so strangely familiar. Somehow, he _knew_ this heat and the way their bodies fit together. He pulled away, blinking as his vision suddenly swam, everything spinning except for Spock’s dark eyes and the other man’s body beneath his own, anchoring him.

“Jim?”

Blurry darkness mingled with flickering firelight, and then everything returned: static and in place, the light breeze from the open tent flaps ruffling his hair and sending a shiver down his naked back. Jim collapsed onto Spock’s body, his head on the other man’s chest, their arms wrapped tight around each other.

“Jim, what happened?”

“I don’t know.” It hardly sounded like his own voice. “I must be drunker than I thought.” Shaken, Jim held still, listening. “Why can’t I hear your heart beating?”

“It is different from your own,” Spock murmured, seemingly content to hold him. He clasped Jim’s hand and moved it to his lower chest. “Here.”

Jim felt the rapid thrum beneath his fingers. His voice sounded empty as he said, “I guess I’ll know where to aim.”

“Yes,” Spock replied quietly. His hands slid up Jim’s back and then back down to cup his buttocks before moving in a complex, soothing pattern over his sides and shoulders, along his arms and into his hair. Jim felt himself melting against Spock’s body and he closed his eyes. He felt loved. Somehow, this man loved him.

“Yes,” Spock whispered, as if he knew his thoughts. But it was all impossible, and Jim grunted, pushing up and on top of the other man and capturing his mouth again. This time the kiss was hard and fast, leaving no room for those confusing, delicate touches. Their erections swelled anew between them, their bodies moving together in the near-darkness. Jim pressed his lips along Spock’s throat, feeling the body beneath him arch up.

“Yes, t’hy’la,” Spock whispered again, his legs falling open, and Jim groaned, leaning back to scrabble in his nearby belongings for some kind of lubricant. He wasn’t gentle about preparing Spock with hastily slickened fingers, but there was no recoil or hint of pain from the man beneath him as he finally, desperately pushed in, beginning to thrust.

The heat and tightness were incredible and Jim let himself fall into the physicality of it, his head bowing against the other man’s shoulder as long legs wrapped around him. The spinning sensation began again and he closed his eyes, his mind jumping across vague images of light and dark, of blue and gold, of some grand silver shape cast against the backdrop of a thousand stars. He heard a muffled sob beneath him and gasped as his partner climaxed, hot fluid pulsing between their bodies, helplessly following into ecstasy.

Jim pulled out carefully, lying next to Spock in the growing chill, the world ceasing its tilted movement. The fire was almost out, and the other man was starting to shiver and Jim reached for a blanket, throwing it haphazardly over both of them.

“Are you hungry?” Jim asked dumbly, searching for an excuse for more time. There was loss and finality hanging between them, and it both confused and frightened him.

“No.” Spock reached out to trace Jim’s face with two fingers. “You should sleep.”

“You’ll leave,” Jim murmured. He should have meant it as a command, but it came out as an accusation. His eyes were heavy.

“Do what you must tomorrow, Jim,” Spock replied.

 _How can I?_ He couldn’t say it out loud, and so only nodded silently.

“It is alright. Remember that. Do what you must.”

 _Not to you. Not after this._ But Jim was already falling asleep, and when he awoke again in the depths of night, the other man was gone.

~~~~~~~~~

Morning had dawned clear and cool, the stars disappearing into the hard light of a new day. No one was watching the sky; not the sparse, silent crowd who had gathered along the edges of the street, not the small group of fighters sitting on a rough-hewn bench, waiting for the trial to begin.

Two-by-two they would be called to face each other across the dirt: pacing out a predetermined distance and then drawing to kill. One would die, and the other would live, only to repeat the exercise again until a single fighter remained.

Jim sat quietly, avoiding the nervous glances of the others as he kept his eyes focused straight ahead at the shifting onlookers, willing himself to remain calm and his hands steady. Spock was at the other end of the bench and, whether they were chosen together or not, Jim vowed to shoot cleanly. Death was a release, after all, and a sure shot was a much easier way to go than slowly bleeding out from another’s sloppy work.

Two names were called, followed by the hush of the crowd and the counting of the distance. Two shots, and only one fighter returned to the bench. Another two names, and this time, only one shot. Jim lifted his chin, waiting, his lips curled in a helpless grimace. He heard his own name, and then Spock’s, and he stood, pushing roughly past the crowd. It was only then that he allowed himself to look at his opponent, at the man who had, only hours before, loved him. The man who was standing tall and calm on the blood-splattered dirt. The man with no gun on his hip.

The onlookers had noticed, and excited whispers swept from one end of the street to the other. There was nothing to be done; they would count the distance no matter what.

Jim’s palms were suddenly sweaty and his heart pounded as he dared himself to meet those dark eyes. Spock’s steady gaze held no fear and no blame, and Jim felt something inside himself crack open just a bit wider. He heard a voice begin to count, and he unthinkingly began to shuffle away, one step at a time, adjusting his jacket away from his gun. He remembered the movement of their bodies in the night, and the other man’s knowing kisses. He remembered the expression of grief on Spock’s face and his defiance of the punishment to reach out again and again. He remembered the sound of his name, spoken with such mysterious significance.

Jim was somehow still walking as he felt an unraveling sensation at the back of his mind: a familiar buzz of energy that flickered and began to expand. The end of the count came and he turned, his gun loose in his hand and utter certainty in his heart. He had known this man before. He had tasted his mouth and felt his body beneath him. He had stood at his side and held him and slept with him and smiled at him and called him friend and lover and t’hy’la… .

He dropped the gun at his feet, hearing gasps from the crowd. In the silence he felt the approaching pressure of punishment. He could see it in Spock's face as well, and there was nothing left to do but stagger forward, leaving his weapon behind as he crossed the distance on his own volition, his lover advancing to meet him. He reached and caught Spock’s body in his arms, holding on as the pain increased and they collapsed together in the street.

“I know you,” he whispered brokenly. “I knew--.”

“Stay with me, Jim.”

Everything was beginning to spin: the street, and the people, and the distant, blue sky were all whirling in a kaleidoscope of blurred color and only Spock remained still. Jim held on tighter. He wanted to shut his eyes but he didn’t, even as the pain ripped along his nerves, ripped into his mind, coming up against an implacable wall… .

“Spock!”

The pain was inexplicably gone, yet he still sat in the dirt, his arms around his t’hy’la, their bond throbbing in his head. Around them, faceless people stood in silence with unfinished buildings flanking them. The sky was too blue, the contrasts too sharp.

“Spock, where are we? What happened?”

The Vulcan’s normally expressionless face now held too much emotion, and Jim could see him struggling. “Captain, we are on an abandoned alien spacecraft. Our consciousnesses presently exist within the central core system. You were captured by a virtual reality program and your mind was being held under considerable influence.” Spock paused, glancing around at the motionless crowd. “The central brain regulated all interactions; you could not be extracted unless you specifically rejected the programming.”

“You came in after me?”

“I did. The central brain’s methods were not as effective for the regulation of Vulcan thought patterns. However, the control mechanisms were still in place.”

Jim slowly regained his feet, pulling Spock up with him. “What are they doing?” he asked, looking at the others. “If we’ve both rejected the programming, then why haven’t we been extracted?”

Spock exhaled. “The programming is highly adaptable; the computer must be relaying auxiliary instructions. Extraction still involves death within the program, Jim. However, the death we experience here should not translate to our physical selves as long as our respective consciousnesses are not in thrall to the conditioning mechanisms.”

“And you’re sure that’ll pull us out of this?” Jim sank into a defensive posture as he watched several onlookers begin to move forward, guns already drawn.

“I am not completely certain, no,” Spock replied. “The probability, however, is acceptable.”

“And what if it doesn’t work?”

“I presume we would simply be inserted into a new, more adapted reality.” He paused. “Or, our deaths may become permanent.”

“Shit.” Jim licked his lips. “We can’t run?”

“Negative. This is the only way out.”

“A blaze of glory, Spock?” Jim turned to look at the Vulcan, offering him a lopsided grin.

“At your side, t’hy’la.”

Jim’s grin widened and he stepped closer as Spock matched his movement. The kiss was immediately passionate, deep and full and unfettered, and Jim dropped his head to the Vulcan’s shoulder as the bullets finally flew, the impacts causing shudders through their bodies and awful, ripping pain. He tasted blood and felt himself fall away.

~~~~~~~~~

A soft bed instead of a thin sleeping roll. Clean sheets instead of a rough blanket. The low rumble of their ship’s engines instead of crackling flames and whispering breeze over dry ground. The feel of their naked bodies against each other was the same.

“I don’t understand, Spock,” Jim murmured. His hand traced his lover’s torso, where phantom bullets had met their target. “Remembering makes it seem so obvious. Why didn’t I realize what was happening?”

“You admitted to recognizing that something was wrong, Jim, initially. The conditioning was considerable. It was not your fault.”

Spock’s hand cradled his head and Jim pressed closer to breathe in the Vulcan’s skin. “And what if it hadn’t worked? If I had killed you?”

“I would have tried again.” Spock stroked Jim’s hair.

“So, you played a hunch.”

“I did not fully comprehend what was happening, but I believed I knew enough to proceed. The mechanism was not meant for humans, and your life signs were steadily dropping. If I had done nothing, you would have died.”

“Trapped in an alien game.” Jim shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“It was apparently designed to entertain the passengers through a hibernation cycle during long transits, building on custom scenarios created from the individual’s deep memories or thought patterns.”

The captain laughed. “So I imagined myself a brooding gunfighter in a terrifyingly bleak place. The ship’s psychiatrist is going to have a field day with that.” He sighed, pushing himself up on one elbow to study his lover’s face. “I couldn’t even feel our bond.”

“Merely finding you within the program was extremely challenging. And, once I joined your perceptions, I underestimated the program’s ability to thwart external stimulus and redirection.”

“The punishment.” Jim winced. “And death was the only way out.”

“It is unknown how the original alien participants would have translated the regular disengagement process. For humanoid neurological pathways, at least, such was the case.”

Jim exhaled, lying back on the bed as his partner turned on his side to face him. “Part of me didn’t change,” he said, smiling. “I still found you...inevitable.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and Jim reached out to trace it with his thumb. “You might find it illogical, but it’s true nevertheless. I dare you to find me a reality where you and I aren’t together in some way.”

“I would prefer not to,” Spock replied.

“What do you think it means?” Jim asked. “For my mind to subconsciously choose that scenario? I had to kill to survive and I was alone, Spock, so alone. It was...desolate.”

“Despite the overwhelming conditioning, you still retained some perceived control over your own destiny. I believe that is reflective of your deepest needs. The fact that you could not sense our bond perhaps led to an amplification of loneliness.”

Jim smiled again, letting his hand caress his lover’s face and slide into his hair as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Spock’s mouth. “Thank you for coming after me.”

The Vulcan’s expression was quite serious. “I will always do so, Jim.”

“I know.” Jim kissed him again and relaxed, his head on his partner’s shoulder and their bodies pressed close along their length. Spock’s arms were warm and strong around him, their breathing quiet and content, secure, and Jim sensed his lover fall into sleep.

The room was hung in lazy shadow, and Jim let his mind wander, thinking of the empty incompleteness of the alien game and the punishment for questioning reality. He remembered that he had accepted it, in that realm, just as naturally as he presently accepted that pain was the price of hitting his head, or drinking too much, or denying the love he felt for his t’hy’la. He gazed out the portal at the stars, hard and cold and unmoving despite the sound of the engines at warp, and his carelessly wandering thoughts jolted. All of his surroundings except his lover’s body began a familiar, terrifying spin, and he gasped, holding Spock even tighter.

“No… .”

_And you’re sure that’ll pull us out of this?_

_The probability is acceptable._

THE END

I do not own Star Trek, and I make no money from this.


End file.
